Howdy, howdy, everyone. There’s been a lot happening these past couple weeks. Politically, I mean. No need to brace yourself for any of Bea’s shitty political takes (although how sweet was that Māori Party MP starting the haka in NZ parliament), I just wanted to point it out because I’ve felt particularly exhausted this week. There’s been a lot of shit happening over the last fortnight that’s had the potential to linger in people’s heads. This is me using all these hypothetical things as a quasi-excuse for not having much this week. I’ve been a bit too dour, and I don’t want my writing to reflect that.
I do, however, keep a notebook on me at all times, where I write down what’s important to me in any given moment, whether it’s a to-do list, a general reminder, a prompt, fuckin anything. It started a couple months ago, in an effort to improve my focus and get off my phone – I always get so lost in the Notes app. On average, I go through about one a month.
If I’m honest, most of the notes in here recently are also pretty fucking dour. Since I started doing this whole blog, I’ve stopped writing bits of prose in my notepad. All my creative energy goes up here; my notepad is now full of ruminations on anxieties and reminders to eat food. I took the time yesterday to read back through my first notepad, and I found some random bits and bobs that made me feel better. Thought I could share a couple of them here. No idea what I’m gonna write about next week, but let’s hope it’s an actual idea this time. Thanks for sticking around.
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03/08/24:
I’m glad that I’ve taken enough care of myself to be able to do what I’ve done for the past couple days, but it’s been really fucking hard, man. If I were to bring this up to Dad, he’d tell me this is what being a man is like. I can’t help but think of the kids I’ll have one day. Am I going to end up just like him?
I think revolution is crucial for human growth. Activism for change is always the first step in actual change – we wouldn’t have walked on land if we didn’t know about the land in the first place. I think in the context of family, however – or my family, at the very least – sometimes there’s no need to protest. You need to show you care about them, rather than the politics surrounding them. And sometimes the ways you care are bound in tradition. In genre. You can write a new book but not everyone is going to read it. Love translates. It is only when you understand the language of love can you start to rearrange the alphabet.
07/08/24:
I’m not in battle with my mind, it’s more like a light soar, a dance we’ve learned but not yet perfected. I have two sides, but they both still lack a set of characteristics. There’s nuance there and I have yet to memorise the next step. Heel, toe, heel, toe, pivot, and repeat. It’s time to appreciate the stumbling. It’ll become monotonous once the dance stops being fun.
10/08/24:
I think you’re too caught up in the rhythm of the sentence rather than what you’re actually saying.
11/08/24:
Always in a rush, acutely aware of the birds overhead or the threats that could be but never what’s in front of you, never what’s real.
You pause to check-in, pick up a line, that trail of rose pedals that lead to your passions true. It catches your eye for a splint, your boots skid on the cement as you take two steps back. The coin shines and shimmers in your eye and before you pick it up you think it shines the wrong way – must be nothing but chocolate, you mumble so no one can hear. You choose not to bother, leave it unconvered, so you’re not the one entangled in entrapment. Soon enough, someone comes by, picks it up with their calloused hands.
Beauty. Two bucks, they say, not too quietly but just loud enough. They carry on with their day, a little bit richer.
Next time you see a path worth following, no matter how long, no matter if the dead end is even in sight, do yourself a favour: pick up the damn coin.
16/08/24:
I love so many things with the capacity to love everything. Choose wisely.
22/08/24:
I throw an animal carcass into the cell. She reaches into the small patch of sunlight where the corpse lies, digging her rotted fingernails into its rib cavity. There are still some loose strands of flesh she can pick it. She is fed, for now.
Neither of us are particularly happy about this arrangement. She was once so beautiful. I would say that she still is, but that’s not going to make her any better. Her beauty was innate, maybe not socially acceptable, but there was an aura surrounding her at all times. She was unstoppable, yet never aware of it.
She contorts herself, folding over the dead animal, and poses in a way that lets the shape of a leg, its leathery texture, become visible.
She spits it back at me. The bones are polished clean, and some of them are missing. I hear a crunch from the shadows. She pulls her leg back in and is now completely shrouded in darkness. I can tell that she’s staring at me, so I stare back into nothing. We keep like this for so long that the sunlight has time to shift, just enough for me to see the glint in her eyes, the blue of an ocean. The furrow in her brow softens. We lock our gaze. She is angry, but thankful for the food. I nod, hesitantly.
Thank you for your patience.
She returns the nod.
Thank you for keeping us alive.
She knows the meal for tomorrow won’t be as indulgent, but she’ll appreciate the silence, the lack of ruckus coming from the other cells. When I return, though, I still hope to bring her something worthwhile.
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